


The More You See, the Less You Know

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medication, Season/Series 01, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 21:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: Harold is still learning that taking care of John Reese means also taking care of himself.





	The More You See, the Less You Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta. 
> 
> Title from City of Blinding Lights by U2.

Knowing exactly everything about John Reese is turning out not to mean as much as Harold had assumed. Mr Reese is dynamic and innovative, which Harold knew from his files, but he also has the idea that Harold will drop everything and go into the field when needed. This is terrifying to Harold. John is very, very good at what he does and Harold can't bear the thought of not living up to his expectations. He is surprised to find he's spending as much energy helping John in the field as he is repelling John's attempts to pry into Harold's life.

This last number in particular has meant forty-eight hours of scrambling. Neither of them have slept since the number was received, which seems to bother John not at all. Harold, on the other hand, was called on to crawl through a narrow air duct toting thirty feet of optical cabling. Even though he could sleep now that the mission is complete, Harold is certain his body won't allow it. His hip is still twinging, and every muscle feels tight. 

Still, the mission has come to an abrupt conclusion: their number is confessing to attempted murder right now. Harold is thankfully back in the library and John has come through without any bullet holes. In their short working relationship, they've already had worse days than this. 

On the other end of the line, John is quiet as he escorts Mr Aubrey to the nearest precinct. Harold still has search results pouring in, so even though they've finished working, it feels like he's floating on rivers of data. The problem with processing information so quickly is that it's hard to stop once the crisis is over. Harold wonders if it’s the same for John. That remarkable spatial awareness that has kept John alive, the way he knows all the exits from a room, where every person is in the middle of a firefight. Harold wonders if that instinct ever stops or if John bristles with that awareness in the middle of the night. 

“Mr Aubrey is in Fusco's tender care now, Finch.” John’s voice makes Harold jump, guilty of dwelling on an image of John splayed out on his bed in the dark. “You want me to hang around? Pretty sure Fusco can handle it from here." After a moment, John’s voice sounds concerned. “You okay, Finch?” 

Harold can feel that awareness turning on him now. His head jerks automatically into a nod, which wrenches his stiff neck. “Yes!” he snaps, sharper than he intended. “I think we can call it a night, Mr Reese. Well done." 

John can obviously hear the irritation in Harold's voice. “You’re awfully tetchy, considering how well this went down.” John’s voice has that silky tone, the one he uses when he knows Harold is hiding things from him. 

“It’s been a long day, Mr Reese. I would suggest we both get some rest. The numbers never stop coming, after all.” 

Harold needs to pack up, to get out of the library before John can get here to subtly interrogate him. Instead, he opens a facial identification program and starts running checks on Mr Aubrey's progress through the justice system. Harold can see which public defender he will be assigned, and while there's no real need to do it, he starts a background check on the woman. A part of him knows this is pointless busywork, but by now it's more difficult to stop than to continue. He’s lost in decade-old legal records when John arrives with tea. 

The soft sound of the paper cup on the table is an unexpected intrusion. Harold jumps, then, because he’s been in that chair for too long today, his hip spasms painfully, too painfully for him to hide it from John. He lurches sideways off the chair. He's about to fall and it's going to hurt, which only makes his body tense more. It should know better by now, his body, but Harold’s always found it to be a frustratingly slow learner, even before the bombing. 

John reaches for him before he falls, hands going instinctively to the best places to support Harold’s weight: one at his hip, one on his shoulder. He leans Harold against his own body, holding until he’s certain that Harold is stable on the chair again. 

Harold braces himself for scathing sarcasm. This situation will hardly endear him to John, who gets the mission done no matter the handicap. And the vulnerability of his situation makes Harold feel vaguely ill. It will give John so many opportunities to pry. Staying ahead of John's attempts to track Harold down is becoming exhausting. Leaning against John’s body, Harold realises how very tired he is. 

There’s no sarcasm, though. “You think you can make it to the sofa?” John’s voice is neutral, which is good because as much as Harold is dreading sarcasm, pity would be so much worse. 

“Yes,” he says, simply. “With a little help.” 

John lifts him to his feet in one smooth motion and as the pain rolls over him, Harold closes his eyes and leans against John for the few steps to the sofa, then sinks down, gasping. 

As the pain ebbs, he says, "Before you say it, I'm aware sitting still for so long is not ideal. I try to avoid it, but there just wasn't time with this number." His head thumps with the familiar headache that comes with caffeine withdrawal. "There wasn't time for anything else." 

"We got to Aubrey before he hurt anyone," John says. "You did what you had to, that's what matters."

Harold still has his eyes closed but he can hear John wandering the room, opening drawers. "Do you have meds here? Do you take meds?" 

Harold doesn't have the patience to dissect out the possible paths John could follow if that question was answered: which doctor? Which drugstore?

"Not if I can help it," he says, finally. "Please don't pretend you haven't searched thoroughly before: I don't keep anything here but tea. And lately, a suture kit." 

He opens his eyes and forces himself up to his feet again. The muscles are starting to remember what they're supposed to do and the pain has fallen to below the threshold where his pride can reassert itself. He takes a few experimental steps forward to prove to John that he's fine. "I'll do what I should have done a few hours ago, and have a little walk." 

Harold needs to dismiss John but he can't quite rally the authority in his voice to make it happen, not when John is watching him with concerned interest. Instead, he walks out of the room and down between the aisles of books. Annoyingly, John follows behind him. 

"This is unnecessary, Mr Reese." 

"Actually, when I was searching, I found this," John says, and reaches behind the books on a high shelf, too high for Harold to comfortably reach. His hand returns with a yellow prescription vial. Nathan's, Harold assumes with a sinking heart. Probably labelled with all kinds of identifying information. 

John shakes the vial and it rattles. "They're past date but I doubt it matters for Percocet." 

Harold looks at John, his expression sour, and John shrugs. "The numbers never stop coming, Harold. I want to keep working with you but I don't want to die in the field because you didn't take care of yourself." 

Maybe it's because Harold is hurting so much, maybe it's because he will never be done processing guilt for what happened to Nathan, or maybe it's because John has presented him with an undeniable and shameful truth. Harold holds out his hand and John tips two tablets into his palm. It's almost the perfect punchline when John follows with a bottle of water from his pocket. 

By the time he's made it back to the sofa, John has made fresh tea, in a mug this time, and found the wheat bag Harold hides near the microwave. It's such a relief that Harold doesn't even begrudge the blurriness from the meds as they kick in. 

When he wakes up, he's leaning against John's side and the library is dark. John's arm rests along the spine of the sofa; if Harold turns his head right slightly – pain free, thank you Percocet – he can see John's gun-callused fingertips perfectly still on the upholstery. An old lamp throws an umbrella of light over them, and John is reading, his thumb holding the paperback open. The pages have yellowed at the edges. Harold knows vintage sci-fi when he sees it. He focuses on the words, sees "Deckard" and "Voigt-Kampff test", then looks away. 

"I think I liked the movie better," John says into the silence. 

Harold stretches his legs out. In the face of Percocet, the pain has backed right down, and the wheat bag is still gently warm against his hip. "The movie was a different thing all together, Mr Reese. The Metrograph airs the director's cut from time to time; perhaps we can make it to a viewing." 

It's a surprise to find himself offering this piece of information so freely. Harold can't quite bring himself to worry about it. Blame it on the Percocet, he tells himself. Chalk it up to not being in pain for the first time in a while. Still, he can't blame the Percocet for John's response. 

"I'd like that," says John. "Some day when we're not being shot at." He reaches over Harold's head to turn the page, and keeps reading. Harold closes his eyes again and thinks about a brighter future.


End file.
